Blondies is a lovely place. It’s a martini bar where they give you the shaker with your drink. This means that you have the first martini in your glass, and two more waiting for you in the shaker. Three martinis for the price of one makes it an excellent place to get to know people. Mostly drunk people. Or the 300-pound man in a pink leotard and tutu with heart-shaped deedleeboppers on his head. He seemed to be on his own, chatting with the door guy for a while before moseying off down the street. That was when I noticed his leg warmers. So I guess they are coming back.

Yesterday, I saw a hearse driver peel out and flip someone off. That has to be in direct violation of the employee handbook.

This young man is driving a white minivan, the kind they use to take residents of old-folks homes to the mall. A little girl is buckled in next to him, tapping her hand against the window. He puts a cell phone to his ear and begins talking. She turns from the window, leans across the space between their seats, and shakes her finger in his face. “No, no, no!” He grins, embarrassed, and hangs up.

This man is rolling a car tire up our block. His action is effortless, almost soothing to watch. He walks next to the tire, bending occasionally to give it a slight push or correct its course. The tire seems alive, like an obedient dog, until the man stops it with his foot and lifts it into the trunk of his car.